


Let the Storm Rage On

by Altenprano



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: A little bit of mildy angsty fluff, F/F, Yasha is conflicted, the Stormlord is mentioned and kind of plays a role here, yasha is a useless lesbian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 04:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14908778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: When the Stormlord calls, Yasha knows that she must answer, but one night, she commits one small act of defiance, so that she may spend a few more hours with Beauregard.





	Let the Storm Rage On

It is late when Yasha hears the low rumble of thunder outside.

Next to her, Beauregard is fast asleep, her breathing even as she mutters something unintelligible under her breath. She holds Yasha’s arm close, and the aasimar woman can feel each breath that her lover takes, she can hear each gentle exhale as the monk dreams.

Yasha wonders what she is dreaming about—she knows that only a couple hours ago, Beau had come to her, exhausted and perhaps on the verge of tears, and Yasha knew that it had to be a nightmare that brought her there. She still wasn’t sure she had the words to ask what it was that plagued her lover’s sleep, and so she had made room for Beau in the bed, offering the shelter she could. Sometimes Beau stayed an hour, sometimes until morning.

They are at peace this way. Yasha does not dream of the war and slaughter in Xhorhas, and Beau is able to sleep peacefully herself.

There is another rumble of thunder, but Yasha doesn’t move.

She knows it is His way of telling her it’s time to go, and she knows she ought to answer the call. It was their deal, after all, that, should He call upon her, she would answer.

Instead, she lies in bed, closing her eyes and pretending to be asleep. She will not move, for to move will be to disturb Beau’s sleep, to disrupt the momentary peace that has settled across her features.

It is nice, to see her at peace like this. Her features are smooth, her normally tight jaw relaxed, the lines of worry and frustration gone from her face, even if it is only for a few hours. Dark hair falls in her face, and Yasha thinks she can catch a glimpse of the young woman Beau would have been, without the Cobalt Soul, without her father, and without whatever hardships have hardened her waking features. That is not to say that Yasha pities the young woman—quite the opposite. To be that strong, in heart as well as body (though Yasha and Beau both know, from many friendly arm wrestling matches at tavern tables that Yasha is the stronger), at Beau’s age stirs admiration in Yasha’s heart. It stirs sadness too, for Yasha wishes she had her lover’s character when she had faced her trials, and perhaps, had her resolve been stronger, she would not be at the beck and call of the Stormlord.

A flash of lightning, another rumble of thunder, and Yasha wonders for a moment if that is impatience she hears, if the Stormlord is reminding her, as he has only had to remind her once, _Do not test me, child_.

This time, Beau rolls over, muttering something about _Mollymauk fucking Tealeaf you sly bullshitting bastard_ and _No Nott, don’t give Kiri, don’t let her, what the fuuuuuuck_ , before tucking herself against Yasha and settling once more.

With Beau tucked against her, Yasha knows she cannot leave, for fear of waking her lover, but she cannot stay, for fear of angering the Stormlord.

Another crack of lightning—He is angry, impatient, and will not be kept waiting—and this time, Beau jolts awake.

Yasha does her best to soothe her love, whispering in Celestial, the language that comes to her first out of the silence. They are not words Beau will understand, but Yasha hopes her tone is enough to convey their meaning.

“Yasha?” Beau asks, blinking the sleep away from her eyes, though she does not make any move to leave the barbarian’s embrace.

“I’m here,” she assures the other, using her free hand to smooth Beau’s dark hair away from her face. She is not good with words—she knows that—but she finds it easier, at least in a setting such as this, to find the right words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“He wants you to go, doesn’t He?” Beau asks, and Yasha thinks she hears hurt in Beau’s voice.

Yasha forgets how perceptive Beau is sometimes, more perceptive than most would think.

People who look at Beau always see the tough, no-fucks-given attitude she choses to show them. They see the brashness of youth, the chip on her shoulder, and hear her words laced with burning sarcasm. They see blue eyes bright and defiant, for no real reason but for the sake of defiance. They see rebellion without a real cause, except perhaps to prove that she is still young and kicking.

What they do not see is the young woman who lies beside her now. They do not see the softness of her features, the way she lies like a cat when she is perfectly at rest. They do not hear (and will never hear) the words that Yasha and Beau exchange in the early hours of their nights together, words Yasha is certain Beau would deny ever saying. They do not know that there are soft things about this young woman—the touch of her hand against the small of Yasha’s back, her hair, the gentle press of her lips against Yasha’s—and Yasha is certain that Beau will not let them know. Those soft things, it would seem, are only for her and Yasha.

For all of this though, Yasha knows that Beau sees more than most. She notices what is left unsaid, finds it in the underlying tone of voice, in the small furrow of Yasha’s brow as another peal of thunder echoes above them.

 _Child_.

The single word, spoken in the same voice as the thunder overhead, rings in Yasha’s mind. She hears the god’s impatience, and part of her wants to stay, her arms wrapped around her lover.

“No,” she mutters, making a point to turn her back to the window, more definitively than it had been before.

“Hm?”

“Nothing,” Yasha assures the monk, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, as if to smooth the furrow in her brow. “I’m staying right here, with you.”

“Are you sure?” Beau rolls over onto her back, and glances over at Yasha. “He won’t, you know, be pissed off or anything?”

 _Oh, He’ll be furious,_ Yasha thinks, and she can hear it in the next rumble of thunder, her god’s displeasure.

 _Child, do not test me_.

“I want to stay here with you,” she says, snuggling closer. “Kord…Kord can wait a few hours.”

A grin spreads across Beau’s lips—Yasha can see it as the lightning flashes behind her, the cocky grin she knows can make her heart melt. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m rubbing off on you,” the monk says, and she gives Yasha a playful shove beneath the covers.

Yasha does not retaliate, only grins and moves closer to Beau, closing her eyes against the lightning. The thunder she has no way of shutting out, but she lets it fade into the background.

After years of leaving when bid, she can stand to ignore His summons for once, if it means she is able to lie with the woman she loves for a few hours more. In the morning she will go, before the sun rises. Surely the god cannot begrudge her some small happiness, after the blood, sweat, and tears she has given in his service, and after what she has endured?

And even if He does not allow it, Yasha knows she has the freedom of will to stay if she should chose. She should not be bound to the god’s bidding, and yet, she is. She knows it is the only way she can redeem herself, her wanderings the penance she must pay for her sins, but surely, what harm is one small act of defiance?

Is it wrong, that she should want to lay with her lover, and listen to her drowsy murmurings until the sun rises? She will not refuse the god, no. At sunrise, she will go, but that is a few hours away still, and Yasha sees no harm in it, and so she stays, falling asleep in the embrace of her lover as the storm rages on outside her window.


End file.
